


Parallax

by kaiz



Series: Gone Fishin' [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-20
Updated: 2005-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parallax, n. The apparent displacement of an object caused by a change in the position from which it is viewed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallax

**Parallax,** _n._ "The apparent displacement of an object caused by a change in the position from which it is viewed."

* * *

A sequel to [Gone Fishin'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/60218) and [Long Fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/60244)

_for Luthien_

* * *

**I.**

The official debriefing lasted for hours. Jack suspected that it would have consumed several days had Janet--his pint-sized knight in drab green scrubs--not come to his rescue.

"Everyone, that is enough," she said firmly, standing and slapping her hands on the table. "This meeting is over. You may continue this debriefing after Colonel O'Neill has gotten some much-needed rest."

Even good old George seemed taken aback. But after taking a long look at Jack--who didn't have to strain to appear exhausted and generally pitiful--Hammond didn't protest. Instead, he said, "Very well. Meeting adjourned. We will pick up tomorrow afternoon. Dismissed."

At which point, Jack quickly made good his escape.

It took a fair bit of effort to ditch Teal'c, Carter, and Daniel, all of whom were sneaky (tag-teaming him in twos and threes), who knew his habits (stalking him in out-of-the-way corridors on the way to his office) and who were determined to know how he was feeling and if he was okay and if there was anything--"Anything at all!"--that they could do.

At least the three of them knew what it felt like to have a...a damned carbon copy of themselves roaming around the universe. Assuming that Daniel remembered any of it, of course, Jack thought darkly.

Still, he didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Not to them. Maybe not ever. And certainly not to the psych officer who cornered him in his office and tried set up a bunch of sessions in which "to explore any emergent identity issues" he might be having as a result of "the incident."

Wonder upon wonders, Janet rescued him there, too.

"Dr. MacKenzie," she said, standing just inside the doorway, hands on her hips. "Now is not the time."

MacKenzie was a persistent guy, but he wasn't stupid. He took in the set of Janet's jaw, her implacable tone of voice and wisely said, "Er, right, Dr. Fraiser. Yes. Fine. Okay then, Colonel O'Neill, I'll just speak with you tomorrow." Then, he made tracks out the door.

Jack sighed and leaned back against his desk. "Thanks."

Janet chuckled and closed the door.

"So what's it gonna cost me?"

"This one is on the house, Jack," she said, smiling. "Listen, I know how it is with you. A hundred sessions with MacKenzie isn't going to make a bit of difference."

Though his chest felt too tight, he managed a laugh. "You know me too well."

"I do. Which is why I'm telling you, officially, as your physician: go home. Go hiking. Go fishing. Watch some mud-wrestling--yes I know about that! Mow the lawn, trim the hedges, get some rest. Something. Just get off this base for while and do whatever you need to do to get this whole thing straight in your head."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And be back here tomorrow afternoon."

"And be back here when you're ready. And not a moment before. The briefing can wait. I'm placing you on medical leave, effective immediately."

"Hammond won't like it."

"General Hammond can take it up with me," she said. The hard glint in her eye boded ill for any protest that George might make. "I mean it, Jack. Go home. Immediately. And stay there until," she paused, as if searching for the right word, "stay there until it's time for you to come back. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Got it." Although it still was hard to take a breath, the heaviness he'd felt in his gut lightened, just a bit.

Janet smiled again and turned to go.

Jack almost let her. Already, he could taste the mountain air. Almost, but not quite. "Janet. Wait."

She paused, hand on the doorknob and waited. Her expression grew concerned as he struggled to put his inner turmoil into words.

He had a home to go to. A job to come back to. A place in the world, no matter how imperfect it might be, no matter how...empty it had become. He had a mission. He had a life, friendships, and the freedom to pursue both. But there was another man...boy...another _self_ who did not.

"Have you spoken to _him?_" he managed to ask.

Janet took a deep breath. "Yes, Jack. I have."

"And he's...?"

Her tone was guarded. "He's okay. Physically."

Yeah, right. They were both _physically_ just fine. All hail the wonders of Asgard medicine.

"You won't let MacKenzie--"

"No," she said, sounding mildly outraged, "I won't. There's no legal precedent, of course, but...even if he's a little on the short side, he's still...he's still _you,_ Jack."

Therein lay the problem. "Me, yes. But not quite."

"Yes. Not quite. But you know I would never let that happen to you...or to him, right? Not while it was in my power to prevent it. Neither would General Hammond."

He did know. Regardless, it wasn't much comfort; Janet and Hammond were not all-powerful. "I know. I just." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "No matter how old he really is, he still looks like a kid, Janet. And he's got no one. Nothing."

"He's still got us, Jack," Janet said, but Jack could tell she knew what he meant.

Who exactly was this "us" that his other self had? Who were his friends, his family, his colleagues, who were his peers? Who were his allies and his enemies? Who were the men and women who would die for him, who would never give up on him, who would cross vast amounts of space and bend physics to never leave him behind?

"Jack, go home," Janet said. Her business-like expression didn't change but her voice shook a bit. "Get yourself sorted out first. Then, and only then, worry about _him,_ okay?"

Not trusting his own voice, he nodded instead. Though she looked skeptical, after a moment, she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Afterwards, Jack aimlessly puttered around the office for a while. Picking things up, putting them down, playing Minesweeper on his computer. Losing badly.

Finally, he sighed. Janet was right: enough.

He turned off the lights, locked up his office, and then he left the base.

*

A long hike cleared his head somewhat but did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest and the lump in his throat. Neither did driving way too fast on the interstate, under an impossibly blue sky, windows rolled down, and stereo blaring the live version of _Born To Run._

Downing a few pints at the local bar didn't help much either, but at least it kept him out of the house; he wasn't desperate enough to tackle housework. Nor was he ready to confront the fact that his home, _his sanctuary,_ had been violated. Not yet.

So, there was another 'him' in the universe again, what of it?

No doubt a second Carter would have been far more useful, what with her being a physics genius and all. Or another Daniel, perhaps. Getting translations (or getting embroiled in ethical dilemmas) twice as fast could save time and possible agita. A couple of Teal'cs could be good, or a few Hammonds. One Senator Bob Kinsey in _any_ universe, was one too damn many in Jack's opinion, but still, two O'Neills wasn't exactly the end of the world. And, as the quantum mirror had proved, there were already _gazillions_ of O'Neills out there, young, old, alive, dead, whatever.

Well, maybe not _this_ universe specifically, but yeah, a multitude of O'Neills.

But now, there were two of them...of _him_...here, on earth. Right this moment.

Thanks to Loki. The little gray bastard.

So if this particular universe could manage to harbor two Jack O'Neills and not collapse in on itself or disappear in a puff of neutrinos or something, then surely _he_ could handle the reality of having a younger self on the same planet. A self with all his memories, with all his feelings, with all that _knowing_ of what he'd done--or not done, what he'd seen and experienced--and with _whom_.

Jack snorted into his beer.

Right. Sure he could.

Though, thinking about it, there was The Robot Incident on Altair, as he mentally tagged it. A whole duplicate set of Carters, O'Neills, Jacksons, and Teal'cs--convinced they _were_ SG1--not staying put, and instead, running around the galaxy, giving the Goau'ld hell until their batteries ran down. That wasn't much different than this, was it?

And he'd had Thor snooping through his brain how many years ago when he'd stumbled through the gate on Othala. Granted, Thor's knowledge of his...inner workings...wasn't so damned _extensive_ as that of this _other him,_ given that, well, they were _his_ memories too. Still, it wasn't as if he hadn't had to walk down this mental path a couple times in his life before. It should be second nature by now. Right?

He wiped the foam off his upper lip, pushed his empty mug aside, and resisted the urge to thump his forehead on the bar.

That there was a precedent for this at all was so deeply wrong on _so many_ levels. But then, any definition of 'usual' or 'ordinary' or 'normal' got tossed right out the Gate Room the moment he stepped off the planet and through a wormhole.

So, yeah. Sure he could. Get his mind around this...this other, younger, less beaten-up, less worn-down--at least physically--self sharing his...his fears and desires, his _life_ up until now. Even with the internet, international travel, ICBMs, and CNN, earth was still a pretty big place. And it wasn't as if the _other him_ was going to go around _sharing_ any of this stuff. Who would he share it with, after all?

Jack put his head in his hands.

Who, exactly.

Though Hammond and the shrinks (and the security specialists) had tried to prevent it, Jack had spoken to _himself_ once, in one of the empty guest rooms, before the debriefing. Before they'd whisked _him_ away to 'somewhere secure.'

Neither of them had said much, but then, they were probably thinking damned near the same thing anyway. Their histories hadn't diverged all that much over the past few days.

Jack had stood, staring down at the boy...man...who could have been--who _had been_\--himself thirty years ago. Back when exams and hockey practice and girls--but not Matthew, no, _not for two years yet_\--had been his entire, narrow little world. He'd tightened his jaw against the pain and had said nothing. Because Jack knew, and the _other_ him had known--the very instant Jack had told Thor, "No, I want him to live"--exactly what it would mean and what would happen next.

"P5C-768," his other self had said, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. Jack had seen that same expression of bleak resolve on his own face, years ago. In the bathroom mirror, the morning of Matthew's funeral.

He'd cleared his throat, nodded, and said, "Yeah, Edora." Remembering too well the sinking feeling in his gut he'd felt _that_ morning, staring at the place where the gate had been...the fever that had risen up, spreading sour sweat over his skin, as he'd searched for hours amid the meteor-ravaged landscape, shouting, cursing, struggling not to cry, with only radio static to answer him.

Exile. Again.

But this time, here and now, there would be no team to miss the other him, to hound the higher-ups for "just a little more time." No one to appease the angry gods of physics, or try to barter with the Tok'ra, no one to bring him back home.

This time, there would be no home to come back to.

His other self had said nothing in reply, but clenched his jaw and turned his face away. Yeah, _he_ knew it, too. It had already been decided, back on Loki's ship. All that was left was to hash out the details.

The bartender collected his empty glass and wiped down the counter. "Hey buddy, you want another round?"

Jack shook his head and paid his tab. The sun had nearly set. He'd delayed long enough and, as per his doctor's orders, he'd thought the matter to death. It was as straight in his head as it was likely to get.

Time to go home.

*

Except that home didn't feel quite right, now. After.

No matter how much he cleaned and scrubbed and changed the sheets. No matter how much his mind insisted again and again that the house _was_ clean and that his unease would only be set right again with time, it still felt as if every surface had a coating of slime, the faintest trace of Loki's presence.

Bastard.

Later that night, after dinner, a few more beers, and watching two reruns of Hollywood Squares, he was finally ready to confront the issue of sleep.

He stared at his bed for a good long while. Then he grabbed his pillow, pulled his sleeping bag out of the closet, and opened his sliding glass windows to the deck.

No way was he going to toss and turn in that bed tonight, jerking awake at every sound, wondering if he was going to see a green light, a flash, and then...no.

No fucking way.

Leaving a box on his counter was one thing.

Snatching him from his bed, holding him captive, stealing his DNA and creating a goddamned clone was something else entirely.

Out on the deck, he moved the telescope to one side, spread out the sleeping bag, then lay beneath the black velvet canopy of the sky. The day had been warm, but it was cool enough at night, this time of year, that his breath steamed when he exhaled. But not so cold that he'd freeze to death by morning.

He'd known other such evenings, years ago. Nights spent on a far more rickety deck, less-expensive telescope near to hand, staring up into that glittering river of history. Wondering how many of those suns were circled by planets like earth, how many of them had long since burned to dust, and how many more had been been birthed but would remain unseen for thousands of lifetimes to come.

But few of those evenings had been spent alone.

Matthew would have been there. Flashlight in hand, calling out numbers, declination and right ascension or film exposure times. They would have sat, side-by-side, huddled under the same blanket in the winter. They would have lain atop their sleeping bags, in shorts and t-shirts, in the summer. Talking, or not. Laughing about some damned thing--god knew what--that had happened in school that week. A thing that had been so important back then, but that thirty-odd years later all he could recall was the laughter.

There had been other evenings too, with Sara (who'd been tolerantly amused) and Charlie (who'd always been game for anything that let him stay up late). Or with teammates, out on patrol.

But more recently, it would have been Daniel beside him. A different sort of geek than Matt had been, but a geek nonetheless. For him, the stars weren't hydrogen bombs held in a delicate stasis strung out along some main sequence. To Daniel, they were cultures and languages and people. "That one there is P3X-562. You remember, Jack, the one with the crystals," or "Hey, isn't P3X-774 around there somewhere? I wonder what the Nox think about the fact that Anubis has returned?"

But all of that had come Before.

Now...well, now was After. After Matthew, after Sara and Charlie, after Daniel had died and Ascended, after he'd returned, after...after damn near everything Jack had thought he'd lost had been regained and then lost again.

He smacked his fist on the floorboards so hard that his eyes watered.

Enough!

No matter what he'd lost, the other Jack had lost even more.

He lay his head on the pillow, his hand still stinging, and focussed on slowing his breathing.

Sleep was a long time coming.

*

Jack awakened a short time later to the sensation of being watched.

Had he not immediately recognized the presence, he would have pulled his gun out from under his pillow, flipped the safety, and taken aim. Instead, he merely rolled to his back and sighed.

"One of these days, Thor, you're gonna quit popping in from outta nowhere and learn to use a goddamn phone."

"Unfortunately, the long distance charges are cost-prohibitive," Thor dead-panned. He sat, cross-legged, at the foot of Jack's sleeping bag in front of the glass doors. He was far more human than usual, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and red flannel shirt. So human, in fact, that Jack felt a pang; he was, apparently, much more of a sucker for long hair and broad shoulders than he'd remembered.

He propped himself up on his elbows and took a long look. Odd. His senses told him that Thor was physically present and that they were definitely still on his deck. On earth.

"Trying out a new look, Thor?"

The breeze blew long strands of silver-streaked hair across Thor's familiar smile. "Recent technological advances have made it possible for me to...be in two places at once. Regarding my current form, I did not wish to alarm your neighbors."

"And beaming down on my deck in the middle of the night wouldn't cause a shock if Mabel, from next door, happens to look out her window? My house is wired, Thor, and under surveillance. You're lucky that there isn't a team of marines, hellbent on murder, breaking down my door as we speak."

Thor's eyelid twitched. "I am far more subtle than that, Jack. Also, I spoke with Major Carter and Teal'c earlier this evening. They know that I am here."

So Carter and Teal'c were watching his house tonight. Somehow, it didn't surprise him. That Daniel wasn't with them shouldn't have stung...but it did anyway.

"I see," Jack said. Thor didn't reply and the two of them sat in companionable silence for a long while, watching the stars and listening to the night sounds.

Although it was pleasant, and it wasn't that he didn't appreciate the company, Jack found it hard to believe that Mr. Supreme Mucky-muck of the Asgard Fleet didn't have something better to do than hang out on his porch in the middle of the night.

Eventually, his curiosity and skepticism won out.

"So, Thor," he said. "You're a busy guy. Why are you here? Why aren't you off, zipping around the galaxy, whacking some bad guys or something?"

Thor looked down at his clasped hands; Jack braced himself.

"I have come to apologize," Thor said.

So.

Jack took a deep breath then slowly released it, along with his lingering resentment. None of this was Thor's fault; not Loki and certainly not Daniel. "You already did that. Before."

"I do not believe that my apology was sufficient."

Jack sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. "What's a little kidnapping, DNA theft, and cloning between friends?" he said, shrugging. "Forget about it, Thor. Seriously. Just make sure you kick Loki's ass for me next time you see him."

"Have no fear on that account, Jack," Thor said, and Jack blinked at the venom in his voice. "He has been made to sincerely regret ever having tampered with you or your genetic material. I assure you."

Jack took in Thor's rigid posture, his narrowed eyes and clenched fists, and decided not to inquire just how sorry Loki probably was. The warmth he felt inside was more than enough.

"I also..." Thor began.

Jack raised his eyebrow when his friend hesitated.

"I also wanted to make certain that you were...well," Thor finished in a low tone.

He laughed shortly. "Define 'well.'"

Thor firmed his lips. "You understand me perfectly, Jack."

Without warning, Jack's shallow well of good-will and equanimity ran dry. He ignored his irritating bio-awareness of Thor's unstated anxiety and glared at his friend. "What, exactly, do you want me to say? That I'm happy there is another me out there? That it's perfectly fine that I can't even sleep in my own bed without worrying that...What? What should I say?"

After a long moment, Thor bowed his head. "Now you realize why I did not believe that my apology was sufficient."

Jack waved his hand. "I told you. Forget it. It wasn't your fault."

"Still--"

"Thor, enough!" he nearly shouted. Thor blinked at him with concern and Jack continued more quietly, "Apology accepted, okay? I'll get over it. All of it." Eventually.

"If only you had allowed me to eliminate your duplicate..."

"To kill him, you mean?" Jack snapped. He unbent one knee and hooked his elbow over the other, leaning towards his friend...his _bakki._ Sometimes the gap between them stretched wider than the Grand Canyon. "For such an advanced bunch, you guys don't know shit."

"Then please explain it to me, Jack, because I do not understand." Thor looked genuinely perplexed. He radiated worry and concern. "His existence greatly complicates everything, not just your life. Your government and legal system have no precedent for his existence. What will this mean to them? What will it mean to the Asgard and the other allies of the Taur'i? Does he, too, speak with your voice on behalf of your people?"

Jack gritted his teeth. "Let me put it to you simply, Thor. _He is alive._" Thor flinched at the fierceness of his tone. "He's not just a poor imitation of me, a shorter and younger me with less fucked up knees. He's a _person,_ a totally different person now. He's himself and I don't give a fuck how complicated his existence makes it for anyone else. There are plenty of good reasons to die and to kill, but because someone is too damned _inconvenient_ is not one of them."

Thor was silent for a long time. "I understand," he said finally.

"Do you? Do you really, Thor?" Jack felt sick again, remembering the resignation in his other self's eyes, evidence of his certain knowledge that he was now surplus inventory. That the _other_ O'Neill was the one with the greater claim to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that no-one would miss him if he were gone. And that he was likely to be sacrificed--and damned quickly, too, given how the Asgard operated--for somebody else's bullshit definition of a greater good. "You guys have this track record of not getting the simplest things about what makes humans, well, _human._"

"On behalf of the Asgard people, I apolo--"

"Quit apologizing, already!" Jack clenched his fists, then slowly unbent his fingers, cracking the joints one at a time. "Listen, do you really want to make this right?"

"You know that I do." Thor leaned forward and placed one hand on Jack's knee.

"Fine. Then here's what you can do for me." Jack took another deep breath. "_Talk to him._ You know all about this old-mind-in-a-new-body thing. You know what it's like. You guys have been doing it for a thousand years. So explain it to him. Help him get through it. All right?"

As the stunned expression on Thor's face slowly gave way to one of contemplation, Jack took the opportunity to look his fill. To take in the new lines of worry on his bakki's human face. To recall what that faintly luminous skin felt like under his hands, how the curve of his lips tasted.

To remember just how damned empty his life had become; duty made for a cold, unsatisfying bedmate.

Finally Thor nodded and he squeezed Jack's knee. "I will do as you ask," he said gravely. "I swear it."

Jack said nothing, merely closed his fingers over Thor's all-too-human hand. The small comfort was welcome. He had no idea if it would make a damned bit of difference to his other self, if it would help or hurt, but he felt better for having done something--_anything._

They were both silent afterwards, watching the occasional meteor streak across the sky. But Jack could still feel the hum of Thor's concern; his bakki hadn't said all that he'd come to say.

"Come on, spit it out, Thor. Whatever it is won't get any easier the longer you wait. For you, or for me."

Thor slanted him a look. "You have become all too proficient at reading me."

"Yeah, yeah. So what is it this time? Some new detail of my 'unique genetic makeup' that you forgot to mention? You guys need saving from yet another dire imminent threat? What?"

Thor took a long time with his answer. "It is simply that...I did not expect you to be alone tonight, Jack."

Jack felt the blunt statement like a punch to his gut. Suddenly, the lump was back in his throat. "I'm not alone," he said hoarsely. "Last I checked, you were here, too. Or, at least some part of you is. Or something."

Thor refused to take the damned hint. "Why is Daniel Jackson not with you?"

"Why would you think that he should be?"

The narrow look Thor gave him was answer enough.

Jack turned his face away. "Yeah, well. Daniel died."

"Yes," Thor said, with maddening calm. "And he Ascended. Then he returned to you. I am aware of this."

Suddenly, Jack found himself standing, glowering down at his friend, not giving a damn if Mabel were staring out her window and the parabolic mikes were picking up his every word. "Well, maybe you just didn't get all the memos, Thor," he snarled. "Maybe you're not aware of every damned little thing. Maybe you didn't know that fucking Oma Desala took away all his memories before she sent him back!"

The utter shock on Thor's face might have been comical, had the anguish in Jack's chest left space for any other emotion. "He doesn't remember, Thor!" he cried. "He doesn't remember that there ever was an 'us.'"

Thor's expression grew thoughtful. "And you have chosen not to remind him."

Jack tightened his jaw and looked away. "Yes." How could he, in good conscience, remind Daniel of what they'd had? It'd been wrong to begin with. Placing his own desires above the safety of others, above regulations that were inconvenient at times, but that existed for damned good reasons.

"What if he should remember, Jack? What then?"

Jack walked over to the railing and looked out into his shadowed backyard. "What if he _does_ remember, Thor? Right now, I mean. Ever thought of that? What if he remembers all of it but wants to leave it in the past?" He sighed and shook his head. "He's not the same man he was and it's not just the lack of memories."

Daniel looked the same, he smelled the same, his smile could be just as open or devious, and could rouse the same heat in the bit of Jack's belly as it always had, before. But. The Daniel whose hand he'd held so carefully the night he'd died...Ascended...to whom he had made the promise to _tell someone_...sometimes it was as if that Daniel didn't exist anymore.

"I see," Thor said. He rose and joined Jack at the railing, a warm, solid presence to Jack's left. "Even if he should remember, you will choose not to resume your relationship. And you will not broach the subject with him in any case, is that correct?"

Jack closed his eyes against the pain and said nothing.

"Have you thought that he might wish to know? That those memories belong to him as much as to you? Is it right for you to withhold a part of his own past from him because of your fears? Is it right for you to make this choice on his behalf?"

He gripped the railing so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "It was wrong, Thor."

"Loving is not wrong, Jack. Merely dangerous."

"It was selfish."

Thor gripped his shoulder and forced Jack to face him. "And selflessness can all too easily become martyrdom," he said fiercely.

Jack grabbed Thor by the biceps, willing him to understand. "I _chose_ this life, Thor. I chose its rules and regulations, everything that entailed. What Daniel and I had...it was like one of your _osk'dreymas,_ the wish-dreams," he said, hating that his voice shook. "It was wonderful while it lasted. But eventually, the dream is over, night ends, the sun rises, and we all have to wake up."

Thor regarded him steadily. "Our lives are not so long that we can squander one single possibility for love or solace, no matter how slim the chance or how...inconvenient it might be," his bakki said, voice thick with emotion.

Jack bowed his head beneath the weight of those words, of the centuries of loneliness and pain that infused every syllable.

Thin, strong fingers gripped his chin and raised his head. Thor's eyes were blacker than the midnight sky and more bleak than frost. "You have been given a rare opportunity, Jack O'Neill," he said softly. "Do not let it pass."

Sweat broke out over Jack's skin and his heart hammered painfully in his chest. Never before had he known such terror or uncertainty.

He could imagine how it would go: the two of them, watching TV, game shows, eating pizza, drinking beer. Himself saying, "Daniel. So, you know how you've forgotten a bunch of stuff? Yeah? Well, there's this thing about the two of us having hot monkey sex in our off-hours that you seem to have forgotten about, too." Daniel's answering expression of shock? Disgust? Or worse: utter disbelief, "Just how gullible do you think I am, Jack? You've come up with some wild tales before, but this beats all!"

Right.

"I guarantee that you will never know unless you try," Thor said with slight smile. He shifted his hand and allowed his thumb to brush across Jack's lips.

All at once, Jack felt feather-light and hot all over. His skin tingled and it seemed as if some great, nameless _thing_ had settled deep inside him.

Carpe diem. Thor had a point.

Apparently, he knew it, too, the smug bastard; his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I would like to believe that I have learned a few things of importance in the past thousand years, Jack," he said. "I would like to think that..." he began, then broke off, shaking his head. "No matter. Now, I have truly said all I came to say. I shall leave you to your rest."

He moved his hand away, but Jack caught it, lacing their fingers.

"Not just yet," he said, surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

Thor blinked. "What is it, Jack?"

"I have something that belongs to you. I'd like to return it."

His bakki frowned for a moment, confused, then his expression grew calm and very sad. Obviously remembering Agaeti's pendant, he bowed his head. "No, Jack," he said softly. "I wanted you to have that. I still do. I wanted...I wanted for someone else to remember them. You, perhaps above all others, understand the...significance of that time. Please hold that memory for me." When he raised his head, his eyes were wet and his slight smile trembled.

"All right," Jack agreed softly, "I think I understand." His reward was an easing of the bleakness in Thor's eyes and a squeeze of his hand. "Still," he continued, "I never thanked _you._"

Thor cocked his head. "For what?"

It was Jack's turn to grope after the right words. "For the _gandreith._ And...for the the photos. Of Matthew." And everything that entailed: the opportunity to share that secret part of his past with the woman who had known and yet not known, to comfort her with the knowledge that her son's final days had been eased, even if just a small bit, by his love.

"Ah," Thor nodded slowly. "I was pleased to be able to recapture a bit of the past for you, Jack. You are, of course, most welcome."

Jack took a deep breath and stepped closer to his friend. When it came to danger and risk-taking, he figured he might as well get started. _Carpe diem, O'Neill._ "So are you," he said, meeting Thor's eyes calmly. "You know that, don't you?"

Although he was clearly startled, the Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet wasn't slow on the uptake. "Am I?" he said with a sly arch of his eyebrow.

By way of reply, Jack simply opened the sliding glass doors and led his bakki inside.

Actions always spoke louder than words.

*

He awakened to the first rays of dawn streaming through the glass doors to fall across his bed.

He was alone, again.

Only the tangled sheets, the lingering warmth in his blankets and the faint, exotic and spicy scent of Thor's borrowed skin remained to remind him that the previous night had not been a dream.

On the nightstand, at eye level, the gandreith crouched, a barely visible wedge in the wash of yellow light.

He rose, dressed, and padded out onto the deck. The planks beneath his bare feet were cold and still wet with dew. The air was sweet and cool, smelling of damp greenery and weathered stone.

Somewhere out there, he knew, hundreds of feet beneath the nearby mountain, another much younger Jack O'Neill was awake and greeting the same day.

An O'Neill who would never again see Rachel Fischer, or hike or fish or bitch about taxes and pensions with his old retired military buddies. Who would likely never again save the world, or argue with Carter or Daniel about some arcane science gobbledygook, or mercilessly poke Hammond about policy or politics. Or hang out with Teal'c, having silent, often hilarious, conversations that might last for days.

An O'Neill who would never again stand on this deck, look through that telescope, wander through this house touching photos and mementos of this life once lived. Who would never blindly trace the contours of the gandreith with trembling fingertips or see the faces of Afl, Agnan, or Kyrr, except in memory.

A boy-man who would never have the opportunity to discover if Daniel _did_ remember...or if he wanted to.

Jack closed his eyes and tried to will away the ache in his chest.

He'd done the right thing, the only thing possible. He'd have to trust Thor to help _him_ to remember what he'd--they'd--discovered on Edora: that the grief of exile was always balanced, though perhaps not comfortably, with the freedom to truly start anew.

New interests, and subjects to master, a different career. New friends, lovers. Perhaps even...perhaps even a daughter or a son.

Jack inhaled sharply.

It was far too late for him, but for _him,_ oh, there was still plenty of time for _him_ to have the chance to witness those first wobbling steps, to read that very first bedtime story, to know the exhaustion and anxiety and joy of raising a child.

He found it difficult to breath for a while, but eventually, the tightness in his chest eased.

One day, years from now, there might be a little bit of himself out there, genes and traits passed on down the line through _him._ A little boy or girl with his eyes, or his nose, his bad knees, or his love of flying.

It was a peculiar comfort of sorts; an odd feeling of reaching across the years into the future, touching those potential children with reverent, invisible fingers. A fleeting sense of immortality.

When Jack finally opened his eyes again, the inner ache had dissolved into warmth, the sun was fully risen, and he _knew._

He wouldn't be ready tomorrow. And possibly not the next day either. But soon, probably sooner than people like Janet and MacKenzie would like, he'd be back. Ready to pick up where he'd left off: "Colonel Jack O'Neill, reporting for duty, sir!"

Because Colonel O'Neill had things to do. People to order around, to send through the gate, or to kill, because, like it or not, he had a role to play in the huge, gnarly clusterfuck that passed for galactic politics these days.

And, perhaps most of all, because someone still had to live _this_ life. The one he'd chosen.

His life.

Jack walked back inside, made his bed, and went to make his morning coffee.

As he was sipping it, the phone rang. It was Sam and Teal'c.

"Hi there, Colonel," she said. "Hope we didn't wake you."

"Nope," he said, amused. Give her a whiteboard, a marker, and a scary physics problem to solve and Carter was grace personified. Small talk on the other hand... "I'm just sitting here with the paper, drinking my coffee."

"Ah. Good." There was a long pause. Finally, apparently after having gathered up enough nerve, she blurted, "So. We were wondering. Teal'c and I, that is."

Jack smiled, knowing what was coming next. "Yes, Carter?"

"Are you. Uh. Are doing you okay, sir?"

Pleased that he didn't have to lie, Jack took a deep breath and said, "Yeah, Carter. I'm fine. Just fine."

**II.**

Hey, MacNeal!"

I looked up from dialing the combination to my locker--a plain, gray metal _locker,_ god damn it, not a DHD!--to see Brett Davies approaching. He was tall and skinny with wild green hair, dressed in black, and wearing chipped black nail polish. He also wore a black leather collar studded with spikes and had enough metal sticking out of his face and ears to pick up AM, FM, and deep space transmissions from NASA.

"Have a flyer, yo," he said, holding out a bright orange sheet of paper.

I took it.

The flyer announced the next meeting of GaLeTSA, otherwise known as the local chapter of the Gay-Lesbian-Transgendered-Straight Alliance.

High school sure had come a long way in twenty-five years.

"Bisexuals welcome, too, dude. Come check it out. Got a lot of new members this year. Good stuff happenin'," Davies said, then hefted his messenger bag (black, of course) over one shoulder and slouched off down the hall. I followed him with my eyes.

Under all that black, he had a pretty fantasic...nevermind!

Two girls were coming the other way. Shelby Something and Lauren Something Else. Their shirts were really tight and short enough to bare their navel rings. Their pants were even tighter, riding low on their hips. Their platform shoes went _clompclompclomp_ on the linoleum, forcing them to sort of shuffle and swing their hips.

_Oh_ yeah.

"Hi-i, Jon-a-than!" They said, in chorus, and waved to me as they sashayed by.

The one on the right giggled. The one one the left--who smiled, then immediately went back to chattering into her cellphone--was apparently wearing a sequined thong. In defiance of the school dress code, I might add.

Christ.

I leaned back against my locker, passed a hand over my face, and chanted "Jailbait!" under my breath a few times.

The whole damned school was a seething pit of hormone-ridden female, male, or _undecided_ jailbait.

Of course to complicate matters, _I'm jail bait too!_

My name is Jonathan Michael MacNeal, aged fifteen years.

Welcome to my fucked-up world.

*

I should have had a clue when MacKenzie thought it was a good idea.

"Regardless of your actual years of experience, Jack, er, Jonathan," he'd said, in that creepy, earnest way shrinks have, "people who don't know will still react to you as if you were a teenager. Returning to high school, even if only briefly, will give you the opportunity to acquire valuable age-appropriate social skills."

I had slouched down in my chair and rolled my eyes.

"You see?" MacKenzie had jabbed his finger at me. "That's exactly what I mean. Your current body language is entirely consistent with that of a sullen adolescent. I doubt that was your intention."

Prick. So I was missing a few inches worth of height. And some wrinkles, some scars, and a lot of gray hair. That's no reason to insult a guy, is it? And Christ, was I really this scrawny in high school? My chest hair is a rumor and forget about shaving. No wonder it took me forever to get laid.

Cassie--the only person not completely weirded out by this whole 'Two Jacks for the Price of One' deal--had put it to me far more bluntly. "Like, really, Jack, I mean, Jonathan. You have _got_ to learn how not to act like a _complete_ dork."

She had a fair point; she's the one who finally sold me on the idea.

A week or so after The Loki Incident, Janet had had me over for dinner. I caught a whiff of MacKenzie's hand in the invite, but by that point, I couldn't have cared less. I wanted off that goddamned base. Pronto.

After dinner, Cassie and I had a chance to talk. I'd always thought she was a great kid. Smart, brave, adaptable. It came as a distinct and unpleasant shock that this new body of mine also thought she looked pretty damned hot. Fucking hormones.

I'd sat on the floor in her bedroom amidst the clutter--posters of half-naked pop music stars, bed heaped with clothes, desk covered in a jumble of text books and notebooks next to the computer that had about sixteen different chat windows open--and listened carefully to what she'd said.

"When I first came here to earth," she'd told me, "everything was so weird and bizarre. First there was school. And all these different _people._ And shopping, and _the Mall_ and I was totally confused about _everything_ and didn't know how to act. But then," she'd leaned forward, warming to the topic, "after a while, I realized, 'Hey, nobody knows me here!' Not at _all,_ you know? And I figured that now, I could be anybody I wanted to be without all that...all that _stuff_ that had happened _before_\--the _me_ I'd been _before_\--to get in the way. And Janet is really cool, and Sam, and you, and I met all these great people at school _and Dominic,_ even though we're kind of broken up right now, so um. Even though it was way confusing at first, even though sometimes, I almost kind of miss how things were, you know, _before,_ it's been really great and all. You know?"

And yeah, I did know. Even with all the 'likes' and 'you knows' and 'totallys,' kids have a knack of cutting through the bullshit and getting to the heart of the matter.

Unlike Doctors of Psychiatry, for instance.

Cassie had gone into exile and she'd gotten through it. She'd left who she'd been before behind and had embraced her new life and all it had to offer, wholeheartedly.

What would it take for me to do the same?

I'd been _me,_ for forty-odd years; a damned long time. I'd been the boy who loved history, who loved hockey, who'd fallen in love with his best friend, who'd lost him. Who'd gone to the prom with a girlfriend later that year because that's what you _did_ back then when you were a guy. A boy who'd gone on to become the man who'd become a pilot and a soldier, who'd fallen in love with another best friend, who'd fathered a son, who'd lost that son and that family, who'd stepped through an alien gate to another world and learned to live, and love, and _to have faith_ again.

Who else could I be, if given the chance? What different kind of man might this boy-self become?

What would it take for me to find out?

So high school it was. Back to calculus and history and social studies and chemistry. Back to proms and student council and homework and detentions. Back to being a member of the dreaded "youth of today!" cohort.

Because honestly, what else was I going to do, hang around the SGC confusing the hell out of everyone? Struggling to find some way to be of use, to be relevant, watching _him_ with his friends, watching _his_ life go on while mine...no.

The moment _he'd_ decided my fate that night, I'd known that my only option was exile: P5C-768, one more time.

And this time, there would be no coming back; there'd be no home to come back to.

*

Neither the USAF, nor my--no, _his_ friends--were equipped to handle Two Colonel Jack O'Neills. Thus, Jonathan Michael MacNeal was born. On September 30, 1989, according to my so-called birth certificate, my social security card, and the wad of papers declaring me to be an 'emancipated minor.'

The name was Daniel's suggestion: "Keep it simple and similar and you'll have less trouble remembering," he'd told me with a shit-eating grin. Smug bastard. Unlike O'Neill v. 1, I've got a full complement of brain cells, thank you very much. They came as a package deal with the raging hormones and the stunning lack of impulse control. No wonder adolescents think they're immortal.

Jonathan M. MacNeal is the name on the checks that the government deposits in my bank account every month: my salary for five years and a full military pension based on my, his, our--what_ever_\--years of service. The bean counters weren't thrilled, but then, saving the world--not to mention the galaxy--a few of times has some fringe benefits. As does having friends in 'high places.' Having excellent lawyers doesn't hurt, either.

They set me up in a new house, paid for outright by Uncle Sam. Came fully equipped with everything, cable, DSL, a kick-ass telescope, a hot tub--I'd always wanted one of those--oh, and a set of happy, wholesome-looking 'parents' who both worked for 'the government.' Just in case the authorities come snooping around (according to Hammond). Or to provide a useful alibi should I ever decide to invite some new school pals home after class (according to MacKenzie).

Yeah, right.

The USAF preferred that my emancipated status be kept quiet. And after a week's worth of arguments and a blizzard of legal documents (and no few concessions on their part--those 5 years of full pay, for a start) I'd agreed. The last thing I wanted was public scrutiny. So for three more years, I've got to put up with the occasional presence of 'Mom' (Maj. Janis Hayes, M.D.) and 'Dad' (Lt. Martin Allen, M.D.) in my home to make things look nice for the neighbors. Both are doctors.

Rather convenient that, isn't it?

I can't vote. I can't (legally) drink, though Allen and Hayes have enough sense to keep my liquor cabinet full and my 'fridge stocked with beer. I don't have a driver's license. Although I _do_ still have a valid military license to pilot pretty much anything the USAF deems necessary--right on up to the X302--on 'an emergency basis,' of course. If the planet needs saving and they're short one O'Neill, I have no doubt they'll feel more than free to call up the surplus MacNeal, whether he's a bit on the young side or not. Oh, and I'm still licensed to carry a concealed weapon; wouldn't want the Bad Guys to get ahold of any State Secrets, now would we?

I probably sound bitter, but I'm not. Not really.

Not exactly.

I'm...

I'm not sure what I am yet. Whatever it is, I doubt it's "culture shock, coupled with the newly observed and identified Age-Displacement Phenomenon (see copious footnotes), complicated by the normal hormonal upheavals and physiological changes wrought by adolescence." Fuck MacKenzie.

And fuck _him,_ too.

I'd been ready to die that night. No matter how real I'd felt, _I_ was the mistake. The copy. Jack-lite. A pale imitation of the Real Thing. A complication. A man-boy without a past, present, future, or a place in any world. A whopping huge security risk.

Then _he_ told Thor, "No," and I realized that I didn't know 'myself' as well as I'd thought I did.

So now, I'm "adjusting," according to MacKenzie. Cassie calls it "catching a clue," which I suspect is more accurate.

After all, I used to just let Daniel deal with the 'natives.' I'd skim through whatever executive summary he'd prepared, memorize the local honorifics: Super Important Head Guy, Self-Important Second-in-Command Guy, Wannabe Important Should-Probably-Kiss-Up-To-If-We-Want-Naquada Guy, and so on, and then off we'd go through the gate.

Now, I've got to actually know what I'm doing. I've got to be fluent in teen-speak, teen culture, teen music, otherwise, I end up looking like a 'dork' or else starting a fight.

It's true: you never know how good you've got it until it's gone.

Thank God I'm at least current on TV shows, XBox, and Playstation.

*

"You okay, MacNeal?"

Two lockers over, Darius Kipp was watching me, wearing a curious expression. His gaze flickered over the orange flyer in my hand; I shoved it into my backpack and finished dialing my combination.

The guy was built along the lines of Teal'c. Medium-brown skin, wavy black hair, about four, five inches taller than me, twenty pounds heavier, and a sprinter on the track team. They grow kids big these days! He was in a bunch of my classes, had an easy smile, and seemed like a laid-back kind of guy, but I really didn't know him all that well. Last thing I needed was a fight--one that I was sure to lose--with a homophobe.

"I'm fine," I said, opening the locker and grabbing a stack of books. "Just trying to remember my combination."

Kipp nodded. "Hear that. 'S my third school this year. Pain in the ass."

"Yeah," I nodded, vaguely remembering that Kipp was the adopted son of diplomats, or finance executives, or something, and traveled around a lot. Hammond had thoughtfully provided me with dossiers on all my new classmates. But even with these brand-new brain cells, memorizing the histories of eight hundred students was a bit much. Not to mention mostly pointless. The likelihood of rogue governmental agencies bothering to plant teen-aged operatives among the student body was pretty damned small.

"Calculus next," Kipp said, slamming his locker shut. "Man, I hate that class."

I closed my own locker then fell into step beside him as we wove our way down the crowded hall. "Why take it then?" I asked. As if I'd had any real choice in the matter, either. A pack of child psychologists, in conjunction with MacKenzie, had come up with a curriculum "especially designed to provide maximum exposure to subjects appropriate to motivated, college-bound students and provide ample opportunities for proper socialization." In short, the accelerated college-prep track for high school sophomores.

"My parents. Got to be well-rounded, you know?"

"You speak, what, four languages? You've lived in about a zillion different countries. You get good grades. You're on the track team. Isn't that well-rounded enough?"

Kipp looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "'S not enough to get into a good college. Besides, they want me to be a doctor or a lawyer. An engineer. Go into banking and finance. Do something important. Can't be a disappointment." He said it off-handedly, as if it were a joke.

Nonetheless, it hit close to the bone.

Maybe it was just the crowded halls full of kids, or maybe it was the sound of the first bell ringing, warping me back in time twenty-five years. Whatever it was, I knew that tone of voice. It was something that Matthew could have, would have said, way back when. "But, do you really want to be a doctor? Or any of that other stuff?"

Kipp shrugged. "Nah, not really. I'd kind of rather...nevermind." He trailed off, stopping just outside the door to classroom to talk to Pete Malinowsky, captain of the track team.

I ignored the brush-off and I slouched past him into the classroom. I muttered 'hello' to the teacher and my fellow students then took my seat, which just happened to be across from Kipp's. And waited.

And wondered when I'd picked up this habit of caring what the hell people really wanted to do with themselves. Guess all these--_those_\--years as an officer, responsible for identifying and developing the talents of bright-eyed Air Force recruits, would do that to a guy. Even if I'm not really 'that guy' anymore.

Kipp dawdled, but the final bell still hadn't rung by the time he sat down. So I said, "You'd really kind of rather...what?"

He sighed. "What does difference does it make?"

I said nothing.

"You're not gonna drop this, are you?" he said.

I gave him a look.

He sighed again. "See, it's like this." He looked around, as if to make sure no one was watching, then pulled a large black notebook out of his pack and handed it to me. "I like art. Kind of like you," he said.

I opened the book, flipped through the pages, and gawked. His sketches, cartoons, and paintings made my desperately bored doodles look like stickmen.

"Holy shit," I said. "What the hell are you wasting your time on calculus for?"

"I _told_ you--"

"Yeah. Well, I say you screw medicine and engineering, tell your parents to take a flying leap, and go to art school."

He laughed, a harsh, tight sound. "You don't know my parents. No money in art. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I've gotta pull my grade up in this class."

I'd seen his last test. "Last I heard, a 'B+' is not failing."

"Tell that to my dad, man." He took back his notebook and held it close for a moment. "He's pissed enough that I couldn't start, mid-semester, at yet another snobby prep-school this year."

I leaned back in my chair and frowned.

I suppose I could have left it there. Parents were a universal pain, right? Hell, _I_ was a pain back when I was a parent; a pretty shitty parent, all things considered. And these days, what with them worrying whether their precious little Ashley, Sloane, or Aidan had scored high enough on the SATs or had enough extracurriculars to get early decision at Harvard or Brown or MIT, they were truly a scary bunch.

But something, maybe the memory of Matthew patiently walking me through quadratic equations, maybe the remembered tang of purple and white mimeographed paper--and maybe I was just losing it!--made me say, "Look, don't worry about it. I'll help you out. I can explain it to you. Guarantee you'll get an 'A' on the next exam. Trust me."

Kipp shoved his notebook back into his pack and looked up. "Yeah?"

The final bell rang and the remaining students hurriedly took their seats. Mr. Westfield was writing some equations on the board and still had his back turned to the class. Good, no chance for getting yet another detention.

I leaned towards Kipp. "Yeah," I said quietly. "No problem. Talk to you after class."

After a moment, he smiled, a smile that reached all the way to his warm brown eyes.

I felt an odd flutter in my stomach.

And for some reason, after that, even though I'd heard it all before, and I filled the margins of my notebook with the usual scribbles, the class seemed just the slightest bit less boring than usual.

Me, volunteering to be a math tutor!

Somewhere, somebody was having a very long, loud laugh at my expense.

*

Which leads me to one of the weirdest, and most frustrating, things about re-doing high school: this time around, I'm smart.

I mean, _really_ smart.

Math, English, history, science, it doesn't matter.

Sometimes, I wonder if that bastard Loki added a little something else in the mix when he whipped me up in the test tube. Then again, I suppose experience counts for something, too.

My literature essays get A's: "Excellent work, Jonathan, very mature writing."

I've got a string of 100%'s on math assignments and tests. _Math_, for chrissakes! I used to barely squeak by in math. Oh, and yeah, that tutoring thing I mentioned.

I've got the highest average in the class in physics. Hanging out with Carter, with her quarks and singularities and wormholes and blowing up stars, must have rubbed off on me. Not to mention qualifying to fly all kinds of weird shit the USAF, the SGC, and the Goau'ld come up with, believe me, Newtonian mechanics and electro-magnetism are a walk in the metaphorical park.

I'm acing history; having majored in the subject in college and then lived through a large chunk of it helps with those "very nuanced analyses" that Mr. Napolitano goes on about in his comments on my essay exams.

Biology is a breeze. Getting shot by a variety of weaponry, being infested with a symbiote, having contracted exotic viruses and read a never-ending supply of Janet's debriefings on the medical weirdnesses--nanites, body-switching, staff-weapon injuries, etc., etc.--that SG teams routinely incurred seems to have done wonders for my understanding of human biology and the life sciences.

Ditto for chemistry and earth sciences. Read enough metallurgy reports, or planetary terrain analyses, or terraforming explanations, and so on, and you, too, will be forced to get a handle on the stuff out of sheer self-defense. If just so the science geeks don't run roughshod over you demanding some budget-busting new piece of gotta-have-state-of-the-art equipment when a cheaper version would do.

Thanks to Daniel's reports and lectures on culture and social structures, I've got social studies cracked. It also helps to have gotten shot at by enough pissed off natives of P-digit-X-whatever to finally get it into my head that, no, 'common sense' isn't especially common everywhere in the galaxy. Every group's got their own way of doing government or science or religion or what have you.

So, you name it, I've either got the highest grade in the class, or I _could_ have if I put in a little effort. Even Latin. With all those damn time loops Teal'c and I went through, I've got Ancient grammar down cold. For Latin you just shift the endings and word order around. Big deal.

Problem is, though, it's all boring. Immensely boring.

And I can't even _delegate_ any of this crap to some annoying airman who's on this week's 'shit list.' I actually have to _do_ the stupid homework assignments and projects and _participate_ in class.

There is also the added problem of the high school 'social scene.'

After negotiating intergalactic treaties, commanding covert ops missions, and fighting to keep the bean counters from decimating the SGC budget, keeping track of which senior is 'hooking up' with which sophomore and why I should give a damn is...deeply underwhelming.

And forget about dating. Even if I could get past feeling like a pedophile for finding teen-aged girls attractive (I'm not even going there with boys), they're mostly a vapid bunch. Or are so dead set on getting into a 'good school' that all they do is study. And honestly, what the hell do I have in common with any of them? A real woman, of the Carter, Fraiser, or Hayes variety, wouldn't give me the time of day...always assuming she'd be inclined to pull a Mary Kay Letourneau.

So, yeah, 'acquiring age-appropriate social skills' is all well and good, in theory. But the reality of being bored out of my skull, day-in and day-out, with two and a half more years of drudgery to look forward to? Not so much.

Hence, I'm somewhat of a disciplinary problem.

I wish I had a picture of Hayes and Allen's faces when they were called in to discuss my 'disruptive behavior' with the Vice Principal.

*

One Thursday morning, at 10:15, I got called out of history class and into V.P. Mitchell Hadley's office. Hayes and Allen were already there, and if looks could kill! I took the empty chair between the two of them, directly in front of Hadley's desk.

"Mr. and Mrs. MacNeal, thank you for coming," Hadley began. "Now, I'm sure that you realize that your son is quite gifted. Academically."

They both exchanged a glance over my head.

Yeah, _gifted_ isn't exactly the word I'd have ever used to describe me, either.

"And given that he's come into school mid-year, he's adjusted fairly well." He ruffled some papers on his desk. "Good grades." _Very_ good grades, asshole. "He seems to have made some friends." I blinked. Friends? What friends? "And he's taken to tutoring some of the other students in a few of his classes." Yeah, and so what? Might as well put some of these new-found 'smarts' to work for somebody, at least. Help out Darius, whose over-achieving, ball-busting parents needed a big reminder, in my opinion, that _fun_ was supposed to be a part of childhood, too. Not just 'preparing for a rewarding career' as a billionaire. "However," Hadley continued, "despite all that, Jonathan has somewhat of an...attitude problem."

My 'parents' glanced at one another over my head again.

"Uh," Allen said cautiously. "Could you perhaps explain a little more what you mean?"

"Well, you are, of course, aware of his numerous detentions. You've signed the disciplinary forms." Hadley said.

I didn't have to look at Hayes or Allen to know they were radiating blankness. Of _course_ I hadn't told them about any detentions. If I could forge George Hammond's signature on an official military requisition form, I sure as hell could forge theirs on some stupid school letter.

"Then, there is his absenteeism. Six days this past month alone."

Nope, hadn't told them about that either.

Hadley frowned. "And though I don't believe that he is _intentionally_ disruptive in class," he said, "other students find his obvious inattention, his rather...challenging mode of discussion and sarcastic commentary to be distracting. Also, according to most of his teachers, Jonathan seems to have a problem with authority."

I slouched down in my chair and avoided looking at either 'parent'. I could hear them both thinking, "O'Neill? Problems with authority? Big fucking surprise."

"Are there, perhaps, some problems at home?" Hadley ventured delicately.

Allen sounded like he'd hacked up a hair ball. "No, no problems," he coughed. "As you know, my, uh, wife and I work a lot. But, uh,..." He trailed off lamely.

Hadley was silent a moment, then said, "I see. Well, I do understand the realities of a two-career household. But adolescence can be a very difficult time. Sometimes, boys act out in class in an effort to get attention that they aren't getting at home."

It was all I could do not to hit the bastard. Hayes saved me the trouble.

"Are you suggesting that we are neglecting our son?" she snapped. "I would say that Jonathan's problems could as easily stem from not being adequately challenged by his educational environment."

I blinked; go, 'Mom'!

"Um, well, yes," Hadley said hastily. "You have a point. It is quite clear that Jonathan could use a few more challenges." He gave me a piercing look, but hey, I've been tortured by system lords; one glare from paunchy, balding, middle-aged guy wasn't about to make me piss my pants. "I see here that he isn't involved in any school athletics." He divided his attention between Hayes and Allen, ignoring me completely. I'm 'just a kid' after all. "Perhaps an involvement in organized sports would help. It can certainly serve to instill discipline, a sense striving towards a shared goal, and a feeling of accomplishment."

Yeah, yeah. There's no 'I' in team, yadda, yadda. It took effort, but I just barely managed not to roll my eyes.

Unfortunately, Allen latched onto the idea like a drowning man clutching a straw. "Oh, really? What sorts of teams sports are available?"

"As I mentioned when you first enrolled Jonathan--" the prick just had to get in his little dig, "--we have an excellent hockey team, a swim team, basketball, wrestling, baseball in the spring, indoor- and outdoor-track and field, cross-country, tennis, and skiing."

"I know you like hockey, Jonathan," Allen put in hopefully.

Hockey. I looked down at my hands. Smaller than they'd been, still long-boned, but no gun calluses, no scars, no crooked joints from where I'd broken fingers over the years, no...no fucking way. My knees might be willing but there was no way I could step out onto the ice again, in _this_ body, and not remember pick-up games at the lake. Or Matthew leaving his stick behind on the ice, selling his gear, turning away from me. Leaving me. "No way."

Slightly daunted, Allen said, "How about swimming?"

That memory hurt even worse.

"What about wrestling?" He sounded desperate. "You watch WWF all the time..."

When I shook my head, Hayes casually put her hand on my arm and squeezed. Really hard. I got the hint; a sports team was definitely in my future, the only question was which one?

"How about track and field, then, Jonathan," she said, her mild tone entirely at odds with the eye-watering pressure of her fingers on a nerve-cluster. Fucking know-it-all military doctors. "Or even cross-country."

And for some reason--besides the nerve pinch--those ideas had a vague appeal. Perhaps because I'd never tried them; they represented a challenge. Or, more likely, because when it really came down to it, I'm a coward; I've gotten good at running. Hell, I ran clear across the galaxy after Charlie died.

"Whatever," I said, and she released my arm.

"That's an excellent start," Hadley said, sweeping his papers into a neat pile. "Now, in addition to sports, there is also the possibility for involvement in the arts. According to the creative writing teacher, Mrs. Clarke, Jonathan has quite a vivid imagination and an excellent grasp of story-telling. She has commented more than once about the quality of his science fiction writing."

Both Hayes and Allen glanced at me then gaped at one another like hooked fish.

Clarke was always telling us to 'write what we know.' Could I help it if what I know sounds like something out of a Star Trek episode?

"He's also shown quite the aptitude for drawing," Hadley continued obliviously. This time, I made like a fish. How the hell would Hadley know? Besides, compared to Darius, I barely knew which end of the pencil to hold. "Although Mr. Barth, our art instructor, doesn't allow new students into his classes mid-quarter, I'm sure he'd be happy to make a place for Jonathan for the spring." _Even if it I have to twist his arm,_ Hadley's tight grin suggested. "The studio here is very well-equipped. There is a darkroom, several computers with the latest graphics software, and even a kiln for pottery making."

Despite my dark mood, that last caught my attention. Besides memorizing Ancient, terrorizing unsuspecting airmen, and playing long-distance Gate golf with Teal'c during those zillions of time loops, I'd also tried my hand at throwing pots. By the time we'd deciphered the transcription, I'd gotten pretty good at it.

"Well, I think it sounds like an excellent idea, don't you Jonathan?" Hayes said, placing her hand on my arm again. I tried not to wince. "They didn't offer art classes at his previous school."

I shrugged.

Allen did his best bobble-head imitation. "Yes, yes. Sounds like a great idea." The guy is toast when he gets married; his wife will walk all over him and he'll beg for more.

"Excellent." Hadley sat back radiating smug satisfaction. Prick. "Jonathan, you may go back to class while I finalize things, here, with your parents."

I got the hell out while the getting was good. Even so, my ass got singed by Hayes's glare. No doubt about it, I was going to be 'grounded' for sure.

Class had let out already and Darius was hanging outside the office, apparently waiting for me. "In trouble again, MacNeal?"

"Seems so." I shrugged; the universal adolescent shrug. "Apparently my attitude needs adjusting."

He laughed. "I could have told you that."

"Yeah, well. It looks like I'm going to try out for the track team," I said shouldering my pack and thrusting my hands in my pockets. "And I'm taking art class next quarter, too."

Strangely, that news merited one of his rare megawatt smiles. "Excellent," he said.

For a fleeting moment, I thought it might be, too.

Then the bell rang and we had to hoof-it to get to English on time.

*

Hayes and Allen were a lot less sanguine than Darius that evening during the de-briefing.

The two of the pulled into the driveway at 7:30 PM and stormed up the stairs, through the door, and into my living room with a purpose.

At least Hayes did. Allen trailed after her looking worried.

Hayes snatched both the beer and the remote out of my hands and clicked off the TV.

"Hey!" I said. "What the hell?"

"Look, Jonathan. I mean sir. I mean, whatever!" Hayes said. "This has got to stop. Right now."

"Janis--" Allen began.

"No, Martin, today was the final straw." Her face was flushed and her dark brown hair had come loose from it's habitual braid. I felt a malicious stab of glee that I'd managed to rattle that cool, professional cage of hers.

"But you said he was depressed--"

Depressed? That brought me to my feet. What the hell? I moved to grab my beer back, but Hayes was taller. She deliberately held it out of reach then pitched it, with impressive accuracy, into the recycling bin beside the front door. It shattered in a spray of glass and beer.

"Shut _up_, Martin," she said. "At the moment, I don't care how depressed he is. The situation is out of control and it's at least partly our fault. My fault, since it's my field of expertise."

"Janis..."

"Oh, for chrissake, Allen!" I finally yelled. "Stop acting like a hen-pecked husband and let Hayes get on with whatever the hell it is she obviously came here to say."

He shut up. Hayes's expression softened the tiniest bit. "Listen, Jonathan," she began, "I know this is a difficult situation. For all of us. But--"

Oh no, I knew exactly where this was headed. "That's just the thing," I snapped back. "You _don't_ know. Neither of you do." I included Allen in on the action. He was an internist, unlike Hayes-the-shrink, but he was as much a pain in the ass as she was. More so, even, since he was constantly _measuring_ me--height, weight, body-fat, BMI, reflexes, you name it--like I was some kind of lab rat. "I don't care how many degrees you've got or how much weird shit you've seen as part of the SGC. You don't know what it's like to have spent forty-five years becoming the man I was, only to have all that taken away! You have no fucking idea." I tried to take a deep breath; it was a struggle. "Look, I know you guys mean well. I realize that you're both just trying to do your job. But I am _not_ fifteen years old, even if I look it."

Hayes had calmed down enough to manage a pale imitation of her usual 'game face'. "And we _can't_ know, Jonathan, unless you talk to us."

"Talk?" I almost shouted, then. "You want me to _talk_? How the hell am I supposed to talk to about something that's never happened before, something that's never even been _possible_ before? What am I supposed to say? What words am I supposed to use?" My fucking voice broke on the last fucking word. "And even if I wanted to talk, why the hell would I talk to either of you?" I jabbed my finger at Allen. "You expect to get some scientific paper--with a long, stuffy title and a bunch of footnotes--out of all this, I'm sure. And you," I turned my attention to Hayes, "will listen 'intently and sympathetically' the way all you shrinks do, then write everything I say down, every thought and feeling, for the U.S. Air Force to pick over, ad infinitum!"

Allen obviously didn't know what to say, but Hayes managed to find plenty of words.

"You know something, _sir,_" she said evenly. "When I found out I had the opportunity to be part of the SGC, I jumped at the chance. It wasn't just about the science, though believe me, that was a huge deal. Getting to work with people like Sam Carter, Janet Fraiser, Tom MacKenzie, learning about alien technology, alien biology, pharmacology, and psychology. Hell yes, I was interested!

"But you know one of the things that sold me? It was you, sir. You and General Hammond. Because, you see, I kind of looked up to you both. Everyone I talked to said that you were the best. Not the usual career idiots who'd risen to their level of incompetence--"

Allen inhaled sharply and said, "Janis..." He seemed to say that a lot, lately.

She ignored him. "--but two people who were flexible thinkers. Unconventional, sure, but brilliant nonetheless. Men who could lead people into utterly bizarre and unprecedented situations but bring them home again, unscathed. Who'd won the respect of some of earth's most powerful allies and enemies. Men would could save the world again and again but somehow manage to not let it go to their heads.

"And you know what? You're right, sir, you're not that man anymore."

Allen actually covered his face and groaned.

"Instead, you've become a whiny, self-absorbed adolescent who is determined to wallow in self-pity despite the unbelievable opportunities that are _right in front of him_ if he'd only open his damned eyes. An inflexible little brat who is too scared to let go of the past--to grieve for it, yes, but to finally let it _go_!--and carve out a new future. A _different_ future. Maybe one without off-world travel, or national security issues, or saving the goddamned world, but a future filled with limitless possibility, nonetheless."

She turned on her heel and stalked to the door. "Yeah, you're a long damned way from being the man I admired." Then, she was gone, out on the porch, the door swinging shut behind her.

I had a vivid recollection of Carter saying something similar to me after Daniel had Ascended. She'd cornered me in a hallway and flat-out called me an asshole. The words were different but the subtext was the same.

I felt that unspoken message like a punch to my gut.

"Uh, sorry, Jonathan. Um, sir," Allen said lamely. "I guess I'd better go talk to her."

But I shook my head. "No, Allen. Forget it. There's nothing much else to say, is there? I think she's said it all." It seemed that sometimes, Doctors of Psychiatry could cut through the bullshit and get straight to the point.

*

I wish I could say that was all it took for me to 'catch a clue', but it wasn't.

Yeah, Allen and Hayes were right. I was depressed. But more importantly, the pit of self-pity I'd dug was already far too deep. I was in way over my head, without the inclination or energy to climb out.

It took a conversation with someone I'd never expected to see again to pull me up to the lip of the pit again. Far enough up that I could crawl out on my own.

And I wasn't especially grateful about it, no. I kicked and spat and cursed his name the whole damned way up.

*

I was in the kitchen one evening, a couple days later, making dinner, when my skin tingled. I caught a flash of white light at the corner of my eye then realized that I was no longer alone in my house.

I continued to chop carrots for a stew, taking out my anger on the hapless vegetables instead. "I was wondering when, or if, you would show up."

Waves of anxiety and uncertainty beat against my shoulder blades. "Would you rather that I leave?" Thor asked.

"No. Just. Never mind." I finally turned to look at him. He was wearing his human shape again, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. He was physically present, which was odd, and he still looked too damned good, if somewhat older, more weary. "So, what do you want?"

He didn't blink. "I wanted to know if you are well."

"'Well' compared to what?" I glared at him. "You know, Thor, you Asgard are really lousy liars. I can tell you're not here because of you. _He_ sent you, didn't he?"

Thor sighed. "Jonathan." He ran one hand through his long, graying hair. It was such a _human_ gesture, but I wasn't fooled in the least.

"Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, would you?" I said, jabbing the paring knife at him. "You wouldn't have bothered to stop by and see how the extra O'Neill was doing. Especially since you'd originally planned to kill him."

For weeks, _months,_ I'd tried to be rational about it, to put it in proper perspective. After all, I'd expected to die that night anyway, right? It was, apparently, standard procedure for the Asgard to off spare clones and I was just some throw-away DNA. Just my bad luck that I happened to be a helluva lot more complex and self-aware than a couple of cells in a petri dish.

But...the fact that I was _nothing_ to him, after we'd shared _everything_...After we'd walked through that purple-green grass with the _reykr,_ piloted the _Vindrvitr,_ ridden the _vatnandi_ beneath the waves, explored 'Atlantis,' sat on the beach at dusk, walked on the damp purple sand on the morning after...After the _gandreith,_ and Afl, Agnan, Kyrr, the photos of Matthew, after _all of that_ and he was still going to kill me!

Well, rational or not, _that_ still hurt like a motherfucker.

He seemed lost. "I do not know what to say."

I set the knife to one side then leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. "Why not start with why you're here. Why he sent you."

Thor clasped his hands and looked away. "He thought I might be able to offer you some...insight into the process of consciousness transference."

"Oh right, since you guys have been doing it for centuries. So, let's hear it, then. Let's hear these precious words of wisdom from a member of one of the wise and advanced and oh-so ethical _elder races._

A red-yellow haze burned away the violet of Thor's uncertainty. He looked up, his dark eyes glittering. "It is for exactly this reason that we do not allow a single consciousness to inhabit multiple bodies."

He wasn't getting off the hook that easily. "You mean, that it's complicated--_I'm_ complicated--and since you guys can't deal with complications, you get rid of them." He blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but I held up my hand. "You guys screwed up, Thor. You screwed around with your DNA one too many times and _wham_ now you can't have kids. Then some Asgard Einstein--let me guess, Loki, right?--gets the bright idea to clone yourselves and next thing you know, you guys are body-hopping through time. One 'unit' breaks down? No problem. Just whip up another one in the lab. Got a few too many clones lying around? No problem with that either. Just kill the spares, because, you know, _they_ don't have any feelings, they don't deserve to live, they're just _copies._"

His eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what it is like to face extinction, Jonathan MacNeal. What it is like to know that tens of thousands of years of history and culture and technological advancement will be lost forever if you do not take desperate measures."

"No?" I stared him down. "You mean I have no idea what it's like to know that any day now, the Goau'ld might figure out that you guys are bluffing about the treaty and decide to pop by earth and either kill us outright or enslave us all? No, I don't know a damned thing about that, do I, Thor?" This body of his was taller, heavier, and older--hell, he _was_ thousands of years older--but that didn't make him any more right. I went over to where he stood near the kitchen table and got in his face.

"I don't know a damned thing about being willing to do whatever crazy-assed thing it takes to save a friend, no questions asked, from certain death. An idiot who'd managed to get his _consciousness_ stuck inside a Goau'ld mothership! Or to save a whole planetful of people from extinction because we accidentally turned off their fucking sun. Or to risk myself, my friends, and everyone on my goddamned planet to save a galaxy full of sanctimonious, ungrateful gray bastards from themselves!"

I turned my back on him and stalked over to the sink, breathing hard. "Yeah, I'm just a member of one of those _lesser_ races that don't know shit, isn't that right, Thor?" I said to the darkness beyond the window. "I'm just another one of those barbarians whose quaint and stupid ideas barely qualify them to sit at the same table with the rest of you 'exalted' beings." I flipped a switch on the wall and watched the vegetable peelings get sucked down the garbage disposal.

Afterwards, the room rang with silence.

Behind me, Thor shifted. "You feel betrayed," he said.

I turned to confront him. "And this comes as a surprise?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I thought..." Thor began, then stopped, rubbing his temples. Then he raised his head and looked at me directly. The anger was gone, in its place was utter confusion. "I believe I tried not to think about how you might feel."

His baffled honesty cooled my temper. I laughed shortly. "Tell me something I didn't know." Until recently, I'd never given much thought to how those robot duplicates of me, Teal'c, Carter, and Daniel must have felt, either. So, yeah, I couldn't blame Thor for not wanting to know, not really.

"I have never personally faced a situation like this, Jonathan," he admitted. "I do not know the proper thing to say. I do not know I should behave. I do not know what I need to do to...to make things right between us."

"Well, for a start, how about you try to remember that, clone or not, everything that happened to _him_ also happened to me, too."

"Ah yes. That." He took a seat at the kitchen table and clasped his hands. "As you said, the situation is...complicated," he said softly, staring at the bowl of fruit on the table.

I walked over to the table and sat down across from him. "Listen, Thor. You were going to kill me." His head snapped up, but wisely, he kept silent. "Now, I get that to you, I'm a nothing. That I don't even have a right to exist. And maybe it wasn't this body, these arms or legs or this brain," or _this fucking heart,_ I wanted to shout, "that went through your gate on Othala and opened up Pandora's box, but I _remember_ it all, as if it were true!" I scrubbed my hand over my face. 'Emergent identity issues.' MacKenzie didn't know the half of it, and I sure as hell wasn't going to enlighten him.

"_He_ wasn't the only one there, Thor, I was too. And I can't just pretend that it happened to someone else, because I can still feel the terror when I dialed that bizarre address and went through that gate to God-knows-where. I can still feel...what I felt when I first saw your _osk'dreyma._ I can feel it, right here," I thumped my breastbone, "what I felt when I thought you were dead!"

He bowed his head. "I understand."

"Do you really? Because I don't think you do, Thor. Or at least you sure as hell didn't that night." I choked down the anger and...disappointment. "If I can manage to keep the human-looking-you and the short, gray-guy-you straight in my head, why can't you wrap your oh-so advanced intellect around the idea that I'm him and he's me in all the ways that matter, even if we're...we're different now?"

He looked up at me then, his eyes were haunted. "You are _not_ 'nothing,' Jonathan. Not to me," he said softly. "I will admit, I did not understand at first. I did not allow myself to think of you in that way. Because, as you said, it would be...complicated. I did not wish to become too...attached." He sighed. "But now. Now, I understand what _he_ meant all too well."

_He_ meaning O'Neill, of course. I wanted to know what they'd talked about, but then again, I really didn't.

What I wanted was...I don't know, _something._ Acknowledgment? Consideration? To know that, even if I didn't look like _him_ any more, that whatever it was that Thor and I had been to one another before, that I still mattered to him now?

How pathetic was that?

"Long ago," Thor was saying, "when the Asgard first developed the technology of _hlauphriða_, what you call consciousness transferrance, we attempted an...experiment. One that resulted in a number of...individuals like you."

I struggled to set my anger aside and listen. "Duplicates, you mean."

Thor nodded. "_Sjálfr-annarr_, yes. The decline in fertility rates occurred gradually, you see. Children would enter the _barnsaldr-nithrlag_ and mature normally, or so we thought, but an ever increasing number were sterile. Over time, the birth rate plummeted. When it was discovered that the situation was irreversible, Heimdall pioneered the cloning technology and helped devise a way to transfer the mental apparatus of one person into the waiting clone. Thus, we entered the _langeldr_." He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "You are, however correct in your suspicions that Loki initiated the experiment to create the...'duplicates'. The reasoning was that as our population dwindled, we should attempt to...maximize the intellectual resources at our disposal."

It was easy enough to read between the lines. "So you copied smart people."

Thor sighed. "We did. Certain...valuable or revered persons, renowned scientists, historians, for instance, were chosen to...instantiate their consciousnesses in multiple bodies."

"Yeah, I can see it. Two heads are better than one. Makes sense. So what happened?"

He looked down at his clasped his hands. "As you have discovered, there were many issues pertaining to...identity. The sjálrf-annarr did not necessarily work harmoniously with one another in...problem-solving contexts. Multiple strong personalities, each believing himself or herself to have the greater claim to legitimacy, ownership of ideas...it was, in many cases, a disaster. Also." Thor paused and rubbed his temples again.

"Also what?"

"Their partners, children, and colleagues had difficulty accepting their dual or multiple identities. Legal confusion and social disorder arose. The few gains we'd made scientifically through collaboration were deemed insufficient to warrant the creation of additional sjálrf-annarr. So the experiment was...discontinued."

I didn't like the sound of that, not one bit. "You mean, you killed them."

"No, we did not," Thor said vehemently. "The jálrf-annarr were allowed to live out their natural spans. But they were not...reinstantiated. And strict rules were put into place to prevent the creation of additional such persons."

"I see," I said, feeling my anger rise again. "So they weren't given the same rights of the 'originals,' you mean. Even though, by that point, they were actually _different_ than the originals."

Thor looked a bit uncomfortable. "You must understand, Jonathan. Our ethicists did not take such actions lightly. Imagine your situation replicated a hundred-, a thousand-fold. The reprecussions...we couldn't take that chance again. Subsequently, only mature, singular, minds have been allowed to transfer."

'Mature?' Suddenly, I got a very sick feeling in my stomach. "And what about these new bodies you create? It's not like you _hla...phri...ða_ or whatever-the-fuck-you-call-it, into infants, now is it? After we downloaded your mind out of Anubis's ship, the next time I saw you, you had a fully grown body."

Thor did not meet my eyes.

I honestly felt as if I might throw up. "You mean you overwrite whatever personality might already be there with the new consciousness? How is _that_ any different than what the Goau'ld do?"

Thor was silent for a very long time. Finally, he met my eyes and said, "I am the wrong person to answer these particular questions, Jonathan. I am soldier."

The chair scraped across the floor as I pushed back from the table and stood up. "Soldier, my ass. You're the commander of the Asgard fleet. It's your business to know this shit. And you were a scientist, once."

"Yes, but never an ethicist."

"Way to split hairs!" I clenched my fists. Now, _I_ was no better than the damned Goau'ld either. I almost wished they'd just let me die, like I was supposed to! Who might this body--this _person_\--have become if Loki hadn't come along and stamped Colonel Jack O'Neill's memories and experiences on top of it? Was there someone else _down there,_ inside me now? Struggling, the way I had done against the domination by Kanan--the way Skaara had--without a hope in hell of ever reaching the surface?

"There is no evidence that cloned, adult bodies possess either an awareness of self or a personality."

"Yeah, but I'll bet you didn't go looking for any either."

Abruptly, Thor stood as well. "We did--we do what we have to do to survive, Jonathan. I refuse to believe that you, a seasoned battle commander of a race facing grave peril from the Goau'ld and other enemies, do not understand this."

"Say it enough times and you'll believe it, is that it, Thor?"

"I did not come here to justify myself or the choices of my people to you," Thor said, with a definite bite to his words. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Human-ish or no, he looked every inch the centuries-old commander of a vast and alien military force willing to do whatever it took to hold back the encroaching, murderous barbarian hordes. "Like your race, the Asgard have made mistakes. Many and grievous ones. And like you, we have struggled, unceasingly, to mitigate the harm we have caused. Do not attempt to lecture me about cause and effect, Jonathan. I have far more experience with the _Law of Unintended Consequences_ than I would ever wish upon you."

As he probably intended, that gave me pause.

I took a deep breath, and then another. Gradually, my anger drained away. Thor was right. It wasn't as if my hands--no, his, _our_ hands--were especially clean. It wasn't as if I didn't owe my entire existence, such that it was, to the dubious benefits of Asgard science. So what if thinking about how I'd come to be made my stomach lurch and my throat and the backs of my eyes burn, right?

I turned away from his intense stare and stumbled towards the sink again. This time to splash water on my face. It was bad enough that this body couldn't control its reactions, that every lesson in stoicism, in keeping my self--my _self_! Whoever the fuck _that_ was--hidden that I'd ever learned was useless against this...this onslaught of raw adolescent emotion; I would be damned to hell if I let him see me cry.

"Listen to me, Jonathan" he said softly. He placed his hand on my shoulder, igniting a familiar fire in the pit of my stomach, to compete unpleasantly with the nausea. Damn him! "You are now in uncharted territory. You are the first sjálrf-annarr known to exist in over a thousand years."

"Lucky me." My voice sounded thick and crackly. Ah, the joys of puberty again.

"There will be a period of...adjustment during which you will be forced to come to terms with the fact that your recollection of your _self_\--your awareness of your physical and mental limitations and skills--is inconsistent with your being as it is now. That you must also face this transition alone, without the support of friends and colleagues..." Thor trailed off.

"What?" I prompted.

"Only that, I am concerned for your...your well-being." Yeah, Thor, Hayes, and every shrink the Air Force had at its disposal. "It is difficult enough for those of us who have gone through the process several times. We, who know what to expect, who are able to pick up our lives where we left them, who have..."

I laughed. "Who have actual friends, you mean?"

"Yes," he said gravely. "We who have companions to support us through the inevitable difficulties."

"But that's what exile is all about, though," I said, turning to face him again. "It's about letting go of the past, picking up, and going on. Alone." Even if some days, you don't want to. And on other days, you don't know how you'll find the strength or bear the pain.

"I would have spared you this, Jonathan," he said, touching my damp cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"I know," I said, closing my eyes briefly. "But now that I'm here, I think I'm glad that you didn't, all the same." Or I'll be glad one day. "I'll get through it."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. I believe that you will. You are a strong man, Jonathan MacNeal."

I shrugged. I didn't feel all that strong at the moment. I felt weak enough to crumble into dust and blow away. Along with the rest of who I'd been, the people whose lives I'd been a part of, and all the things I'd fought and bled to accomplish that were less than nothing now.

"You have called it 'exile,'" Thor said, tilting his head in that way he had. "But I am not certain that I would call it thus."

I frowned at him.

By way of answer, he pulled a small milky crystal from his pocket and turned it over and over in his hands. "Unlike the Asgard, unlike the sjálrf-annarr before you...and unlike me," he said slowly, "you have the unprecedented opportunity to truly begin anew." His night-black eyes met mine with an intensity stole my breath. "As you know, I was a scientist in another life. A parent, a lover, but I will die as a soldier. You, too, were a soldier, Jonathan. And now? What else might you be in this next life? A father? A teacher? A poet? A philosopher? An artist? With all of that ahead of you...as I said, I do not believe that 'exile' is the word I would choose. 'Newly born' might be more apt." Thor smiled and placed the crystal in my hands. "But nonetheless, no matter who you become, no matter the wonders you will accomplish, you cannot escape or deny the past that has shaped you." His smile became softer somehow, wistful almost. "As I have learned over the centuries, Jonathan, there are some things that are well worth remembering. And cherishing."

He tapped the crystal once with his finger. A bright light filled the kitchen. "I, for one, hope to live long enough to see what you might become," he said, and then he was gone.

As was the crystal.

In its place, on the palm of my hands, was a familiar brown cardboard box, tied with string.

My knees gave out suddenly and I found myself sitting on the floor, cradling the box on my lap.

This time, there was no reason to hide my tears.

*

An hour later, Janet let herself into the house and found me sitting in the kitchen staring at the unopened box on the table.

She was the only one of my...my friends who ever visited. Sure, I'd get the occasional email from Carter, Teal'c, and Daniel. George would sometimes send classified mission reports my way to get a second opinion. He'd phone every once in a while to catch up, tell me how his grand-daughters were doing. And yeah, I know, they were all busy, off-planet, saving the world. But Janet was the only one who actually made the time to stop by, who had tried, and managed to reconcile _his_ existence with mine.

"Jonathan?" She said from the doorway. "Are you okay?"

Good question. Rather than answer, I said, "Thor was here."

"Oh." The single word was packed with unspoken questions and concerns. Janet knew that Thor and I were--had been--friends. She entered the room quietly took the seat opposite mine. She glanced at the box but didn't comment. "What did he have to say?"

I plucked at the twine wrapped around the box. "Pretty much what all of you have been saying. I need to stop living in the past. I need to get on with my life. That I have everything ahead of me. That I'd be a fool to waste this chance. Blah, blah, blah."

Her hand closed over mine. "And you don't believe it."

"Would you?" I asked, pathetically soaking up the animal comfort in that touch like a bone-dry sponge. "When I got stranded on P5C-768--Edora--I didn't have a choice, you know? There was really nothing left of everything I'd left behind. I had my clothes, weapons, a few rounds of ammo, and a radio. That's it. The rest of it was fighting for survival. Rebuilding the village. Setting up irrigation systems, planting crops, planning for winter. Trying not to get crushed by the next big-ass flaming chunk of rock that decided to fall out of the sky. There wasn't much time to think about what I'd lost. And I wasn't..." my fucking voice broke _again,_ "I wasn't taunted with it every minute of every single day." I leaned my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands.

"Cassie said something similar to me the other day," Janet said quietly.

That made me lean back in the chair and look up.

"She said that you had it much worse. She knew she couldn't go back. There was nothing to go back _to._ And all her friends, the people she's known, were gone, dead. So she had no choice but to go forward." She reached over and squeezed my hand again. "But you're here. And everything you had is still here too. Even the people who were your closest friends."

Janet never did pull any punches. I swallowed hard. "Cassie is a smart kid."

She smiled with smug, maternal pride. "I know."

"Like mother, like daughter, eh?" I said, and she laughed. "Listen, Janet. What would you do if you couldn't be a doctor anymore?"

"Hm." She cocked her head in an uncanny imitation of Thor. "Good question," she said. "And a tough one. I've nearly always wanted to be a doctor. Since I was eight years old."

"Since you played doctor with the boy next door, eh?"

"No, you idiot." Janet swatted my shoulder. "Since my grandfather died of a heart attack." She tapped her lip with her index finger. "I'd always been interested in science, biology. But when he died, suddenly, everything got very focused. I wanted to know _why_ he died. How it happened. I wanted to know how to prevent it from happening to someone else. Before that...I don't know. I suppose I had the usual childhood dreams...movie star, pop singer, scientist..."

"Nobel prize winner in biology."

She laughed again. "Yes, that too."

"So pretty much, you always knew. You never had to decide." I plucked at the twine again, listening to the dull _twang_ it made against the side of the box. For some reason, I found myself thinking of Rachel Fischer. Another determined woman who'd always known what she'd wanted to be when she grew up.

"Yes, I did. Didn't you?"

"Yeah, and I think that's the problem." Janet tried to pry me away from the twine but I batted at her hand. "I always wanted to be a pilot. I saw an air show when I was a kid, maybe five or six years old, and that was it. I just _knew_ I was going to fly one of those planes. I could feel it in my bones. The rest, as they say, is history."

Clearly exasperated, Janet finally moved the box out of reach and plunked it down on the other side of the table. In retaliation, I grabbed an orange from the bowl and began rolling it back and forth between my hands.

"I went to the Academy, graduated. Became a pilot, showed an aptitude for, er, 'non-linear thinking'. Ended up in covert ops. Got promoted a bunch of times. Got married, had a kid." _Lost him._ Lost her. "Went through the gate to Abydos, came back, somehow ended up in charge, fought a bunch of snake-heads. Got myself cloned, and _wham_ here I am acing high school, for crissakes." I managed a smile. "If this is how you, and Daniel, and Carter felt all through school, then I solemnly swear to never make fun of geeks again."

She smiled, but it was obvious she wasn't the least bit fooled; teen-aged or middle-aged, she just knew me too damned well. "Sounds like you need a career counselor more than you need a therapist, Jonathan."

I snorted. "Tell that to Hayes and MacKenzie."

"Listen," she said softly. "There's no reason you couldn't do it all again. Once you're of age, both the Air Force and the SGC would take you back in an instant. You know that."

"Right. And spend my entire career in the shadow of The Great O'Neill. Sign me up now."

She snatched the orange away, too, and pinned me with her best doctor's glare; the Goau'ld system lords could take lessons. "I know you miss it, Jonathan. I don't care how much dust collects on that telescope you've got out on the deck. I know you miss the stars."

I stood up abruptly and went to the 'fridge for a beer. "Yeah. Well. I miss a lot of things, don't I? And I can't have any of them."

She followed me and, like with the orange, grabbed the beer out of my hand. Unlike Hayes, she didn't throw it. "No, you idiot," she said. "You just can't have them the way you _used_ to have them."

I stared at her. "What?"

She set the beer on the counter and rubbed at her eyes. "Give me a minute, let me try to explain," she said, clearly fishing for words. "Okay. I think that I understand something of what you're going through. I see it all the time with wounded patients. Soldiers who I have to tell that they're too disabled to ever go out into the field again. The fight is 'out there' and you're itching to be a part of it. _Right now_."

Suddenly, I had to blink very rapidly or I knew I'd embarrass myself. Yeah, she knew me; she knew exactly what the hell she was talking about. Goddamn it! Somehow, while my back was turned, what had started out as a one-way-trip, a suicide mission intended to pay for my failure to protect my son, had become my life's work.

"But the problem is," Janet continued, "that just like them, the ones missing an arm or part of a leg, or most of their vision or hearing, this is _no longer your fight._ It's someone else's." She put her hand on my shoulder. "Some other guy, who maybe isn't as good as you'd be, who certainly doesn't deserve it as much as you do. But none of it matters, because you're not the one out there and you'll never be again. Not in the way you want. Because it's just not your fight anymore."

For the second time that night, I turned away to the sink to wash away the anger and grief and the evidence of my fifteen-year old weakness. One more time and I swear they'll revoke my Real Guy license.

"There's no reason that you couldn't be involved with the SGC in a civilian capacity, Jonathan, if that's what you want." She was standing so close that I could feel her body heat against my spine. "There's no reason that you can't be a pilot again. Or study science, or engineering, or history if you want to. Or you could do something entirely different. Political science. Law. Diplomacy. None of that means that you can't have the stars again, one day." She paused, then said thoughtfully, "Assuming that you discover, afterwards, that you still want them again."

When I finally found my voice and the composure to turn and look at her again, I asked, "And how am I supposed to know which one to pick?"

She raised her eyebrow and smiled. "Why not spend the next two years of 'High School Hell' as you put it, finding out? Take all the classes you can. Read all the books that Jack O'Neill never read, try all the things he'd never, in a million years, try." Her smile was a little watery and it occurred to me that telling a man he'd never go back into the field might be just as difficult as hearing the devastating news yourself. "The world has changed a lot in thirty years, Jonathan. There are whole fields to study, entire branches of physics and math, new technology, new ideas, entirely new countries and political systems, things that didn't exist--that people couldn't even conceive of--when Jack O'Neill was fifteen years old."

I jammed my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. There was a lot of sense in that. A lot. Enough so the nameless _thing_ that had been roiling around in my guts for months finally settled into a strange feeling of...anticipation. Pre-mission jitters.

"So, you promised me dinner," she said, not giving me any time to think about what she'd said. 'Ruminate pointlessly' is what she--and Daniel--would have called it.

"Yeah, well. I did. But Thor kind of put the kibosh on that," I said, gesturing at the half-assembled stew. The ingredients were still piled in the pot, uncooked.

"Well," she said with a grin. "I guess I'll have to settle for knowing what's in the box. And then you can take me out for a steak."

I couldn't help but laugh. Yeah, Janet was one of those people who knew that odd, eight symbol gate address. And one of the few who knew exactly how hard to push me and when to let up. "Fine," I said. "Let's see what good old Thor left me as a parting gift." Though I suspected that I already knew.

O'Neill would probably strangle me if he'd known what I was about to do. But honestly, fuck him. I'd lost Daniel, Rachel, everyone else who'd known and loved that particular Jack O'Neill--who'd loved that version of _me._ All that Jonathan MacNeal had left was Janet...and maybe Thor.

A single swipe from my pocket knife took care of the twine and the tape on the brown paper. Instead of styrofoam peanuts, this time, the box was packed with shredded paper, and the packing slip listed four items, rather than three.

Janet was silent as I lifted each item out of the box and set them side-by-side. The gandreith first, then Agaeti's pendant. Her eyes widened at the strip of photos. "His name was Matthew," I murmured, then laid the fourth object, a milky crystal, next to the others. Janet was fascinated. She reached out and stroked it lightly with a fingertip. "What is this, Jonathan?"

I couldn't hide my smile. Oh yeah, O'Neill would be so pissed!

"The Asgard call it an _osk'dreyma,_" I said, not minding this time when my voice cracked on the words. "ItÕs like a hologram, a wish dream."

*

'What wouldn't O'Neill do?'

It became something of a mantra for a while.

I cut back on the beer, went vegetarian, bought a cat, and got my ear pierced. I started showing up for class again, managed to keep my mouth shut, and occasionally, just for variety, even paid attention to the lectures. I also 'moderated my tone of voice' whenever I asked a question. As if by magic, I suddenly stopped pissing off the teachers. For a 'reward', I wound up with three extra-credit term papers, one on quantum physics, one on American foreign policy, and the other on the thematic origins of film noir. Go me.

I also turned out to be a surprisingly good long distance runner (all hail Asgard science for knees that don't snap, crackle, and pop when I walk); throwing pots was exactly as much fun as I remembered; and playing around with Photoshop turned out to be pretty cool, too. Being on the debate team was way more fun than it had sounded at first, and Darius and I started up a series of underground comics, packed with snide political, cultural, and rude, crude sexual humor. I tutored him in math and sarcasm, and he taught me about perspective, negative space, and complementary contrast. A pretty fair trade, all around.

Hayes and Allen got called into Hadley's office again, this time to congratulate me on my 'Remarkable Turn-Around.' While the two of them made like fish, I said nothing, though I did ooze smugness the whole time.

So yeah, 'What wouldn't O'Neill do?' I went all out to answer that question.

Eventually, though, as the weeks and months passed, I stopped comparing myself to him--to the person I'd been--and concentrated on learning how to be _me._ On finding out exactly what sort of stuff this all-new, 21st century, Jonathan Michael MacNeal was made of.

There were moments when I even surprised myself.

*

The flyer was lime green this time.

Delivered again by a smiling, slouching, black-clad and pierced Davies. "Good times, planned, dude. Come on down, yo."

And this time, rather than stuff the paper into my backpack without looking, I actually noted the time, date, and place.

Three weeks later, after straggling in from a long run, I showered, got dressed, then went off in search of Room 323-A, only thirty minutes late.

When I arrived, the meeting was in full swing.

My stomach gave a lurch, but I forced myself to go in anyway. I'd been tortured to death by Ba'al! How stupid was it to be intimidated by a bunch of kids?

A short, round girl with glasses and magenta hair was addressing the room, talking about out-reach, counseling, and support. Davies was there, of course, as well as a smattering of kids I vaguely recognized from study hall or detention. Mr. Barth, the art teacher and GaLeTSA faculty sponsor, was sitting off to one side.

Everyone turned to look at me. I met the mildly hostile silence with my usual brand of sarcasm: "What? So, I'm late. Deal," then made a bee-line for the one person with an openly friendly--and astonished--expression. With a sigh of relief, I slid into the empty seat next to him.

Magenta hair glared at me then picked up where she left off. I slouched down in my chair.

"Still causing trouble, eh, MacNeal?" Darius said, grinning fit to crack his face wide open.

I shrugged as casually as I could, but still felt my cheeks burn. "'s my middle name."

"Got that right," he said under his breath. "Thank god."

And for some reason, I wish I knew why, that was the exact moment when I _knew,_ when I _finally_ got it.

When the me-that-had-been, the me-that-was, and the me-that-could-possibly-be all snapped together into a single person with a near-audible click.

The familiar pre-mission jitters were back. But it was okay. I knew that whatever came next, it would be good. Even if it didn't lead back to the stars, or back through the gate, even if I never got to save the world again, whatever the hell it was, would turn out all right.

Darius frowned a looked over at me. "You okay, man?" he asked softly.

Suddenly, I couldn't contain my own grin. "Oh yeah. I'm fine," I said. "Just fine."

_Finis._

* * *

**Glossary**

**Afl, Agnan, and Kyrr:** Thor's children _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Agaeti:** Thor's 'female' partner. _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Bakki:** the inner cutting edge of the traditional Asgard honor blade (hjartsaema), also a term of endearment roughly equivalent to 'lover'. A bakki is an unwise, perhaps illicit, but nonetheless essential beloved _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Barnsaldr-nithrlag:** Literally, 'childhood's end', the Asgard equivalent of puberty, after which sex differentiation can occur _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Hlauphriða:** The Asgard technology of consciousness transferrence.

**Gandreith:** A sorcerer's chariot, the name that Branrefr gave the alien space craft found embedded in the rock on the sea floor of Alfheim _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Langelder:** Asgard term denoting immortality gained through the process of cloning and consciousness transferrance (see Gone Fishin' 2: Long Fire).

**Osk'dreyma:** Literally a wish-dream, the Asgard equivalent of a hologram _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Reykr:** A small ferret-like animal, native to Alfheim _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Sjálfr-annarr:** A single consciousness that has been instantiated in multiple bodies.

**Vatnandi:** An aquatic, dragon-like creature native to Alfheim, kin to the original, technologically advanced inhabitants _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Vindrvitr:** The Wise Wind, Thor's lifsiglaskip, designed by his partner Agaeti _(see Gone Fishin' 1)._

**Author's Note:**

> This story will make no sense unless you've read Gone Fishin' and Long Fire. It takes place immediately following Fragile Balance (7x03). Many thanks to Arduinna's wonderful SG-1 site, and special, uber!thanks to Luthien, for the beta and everything else! All remaining mistakes are mine alone.


End file.
